Early Thaw (7 page)

Then, as if from another world, the echoing crunch of a boot sole on snow. Though she was of course expecting him, the sharpness of the sound was unsettling in this new place of gurgles and murmurs.

He was close.

Water’s so warm
, she thought.
I’ll be too hot by the time he gets here—probably have to stand up to cool off. Just a second or two.

A smile sliced across her lips. It wasn’t like he was losing on the deal, she reasoned. A naked twentysomething washing her very taut and supple body—definitely more action than a shitterpaper salesman would ever get any other way.

No
, she thought, smiling.
To get
that
lucky,
he’d have to be the last man on earth
.

***

Steam pooled behind his oversized glasses. The black streaks of dirt across his wifebeater made him look like the world’s skinniest Holstein.

“I’m serious, Leslie—are you fucking glad I’m here or not?” Crazy feelings now. Murderous feelings. She wanted to strangle him for the answer, beat the answer out of him. Lose herself in righteous fury to put out of mind that one niggling question worming its way through her thoughts, the one she couldn’t yet seem to kill:
Why do I care
?

He slid his glasses off and stared at her with eyes that suddenly seemed much too big. Swallowed thickly, his jaws clenching against the motion.

“Sometimes,” he said, tiredly. “Sometimes I really am.”

***

She could hear him puttering along the ridgeline now, boots chewing through the rotten snow. His footsteps were irregular, as if he were hauling something heavy. Probably timber for the stove, something like that. And though curiosity was scratching at the back of her neck, she was too disciplined to peek. It’d throw the whole thing off.

The gate was open. Their habit was to close it completely before a bath, stemming the flow from the culvert and letting the pool water cool to a tolerable temperature. Not today. Today, she’d felt the strange desire to burn a bit. She watched, rapt, as the current snaked through her toes and gurgled loudly off through a stained section of PVC Leslie’d scavenged from the gas station. She could feel the bubbling stream threatening to scald her skin. Head and shoulders naked in the freezing air, the sensation was exhilarating. She shifted her sloping backside closer to the inlet.

He was still clomping across the crusted snow—with each of his heaving steps, chunks of ice broke off and skittered across the glassy surface. She straightened and permitted herself a quarter turn—with the sun to their backs like it was, it’d be just enough to show an enticing little curve from the side. From the corner of her eye, she could barely make out the stringy silhouette of his body pinned against the sky. Just to make sure he didn’t miss anything, she fanned red-tipped fingers across the surface of the water, sending waves splashing noisily against the edge.

It worked. Really well. A split second of recognition and he was off—
Jesus, nearly running!
—towards her, the unsteady gait almost comical now as she listened to him clamber over snowdrifts and exposed boulders. A crash—he must’ve fallen—and she was digging nails into her thigh to keep from laughing—big, nervous, nearly uncontrollable laughs—at the electrifying absurdity of it. This was new, this was weird, she hadn’t expected him to—

To what? What was he going to do when he got there? Say “hi” in that chippy, half-burnt voice, stare at his shoes, and putter awkwardly back inside?

Or…maybe something else?

As much as she tried to smother it, the thought made her tingle. Maybe she’d just go with it, see what he did—at least for a second or two. Then she could do the whole shame thing and watch him squirm, all that stuff—but yeah, maybe just a couple seconds to see what he had in mind—

He was up again, crashing along, closer now—probably thirty feet or so—and, from the sound he was making, doing everything he could to keep from tripping over his pants. Without really thinking about it, she brought a hand up to her neck, ran her palm up against the slim bones of her spine, the silk of her hair, letting the ponytail raise and drop like a traffic signal. She realized with some surprise that she was losing control of her breath; her chest was rippling the water with quick inhalations.

The gurgling of the stream made it hard to hear; the sound dissolved into a million anxious voices whispering about the things that might happen. She guessed by the sudden lack of echo that he’d reached the edge of the “yard,” was now just a few eager footsteps behind. She imagined his view: the faint crease of her back, the playful drop of her hair, two arms spread wide across the water, ten slender fingers massaging the surface. Stripped by sun and wind, she would be at her barest, her most raw. Here, she would be a tumbling of curves and softness. Here,
different
things could happen.

What would he do?

Her legs slid across each other in the slippery heat. Had he slowed? How close was he? What was he doing?

“Leslie?” The tiny question froze in the icy air, was swallowed by the vastness of the vacant winter sky. Then a sound like radio static as boots scuffed the ground behind her, two gentle thuds as knees fell to the gravel.

Kneeling? He’s kneeling. Right behind…what is he...

An ionic closeness—hovering, inching, the hushed slip of his lips parting.

“Les?”

As his teeth dug into the soft triangle of flesh between her neck and shoulder, she shuddered at the strength of his hand on her skin.

It felt good.

***

About the Author

Curt McDermott is a high school English teacher and lover of ghost stories, comic books, and the Oxford comma. He and his wife live in New Hampshire with a dog and several ducks. See more of his stuff at
hallowpen.com,
or chuck him an email at [email protected].

Thanks very much for reading.